Clay had a brief moment of panic. Did feeding his curiosity merit spilling his guts? “If you’re tired, we can just--”

“No,” she said. “I’d rather talk.” She folded her fingers around the coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

Her diamond caught his eye. His curiosity weakened his own defense. “For starters, I heard you broke up with your fiancé. Yet you’re still wearing the ring. Are you thinking you two will get back together?” With that question out there, another rolled out. “Is that who’s been texting you tonight? You understand the rule of not telling anyone where you are includes him.”

She sipped her milk as if contemplating his questions. “Yes, I broke up with my fiancé. No, I’m not going back to him. And no that wasn’t him who texted me. That was Savanna. At nine months pregnant she has to pee every hour. She guessed I wasn’t sleeping. I apologize if that woke you up. I’ll turn my phone’s volume down.”

She held up her hand. “And this . . . It was a half-size too small. Charles was supposed to get it resized. He never got around to it. I tried to take it off.” Turning it, and the skin bunched up around her knuckle. “If I used soap and worked with it, I could get it off. But I’ve been kind of busy being on someone’s hit list.”

Her answers were logical and made him feel a little illogical for asking. Pushing that aside, he asked, “You want it off? I’m an expert at that.”

She looked puzzled. “An expert at removing too tight engagement rings? What do you do? Break couples up, or just dig rebound chicks.”

He laughed. “Not quite. I’ve assisted in four ring-removal ceremonies with my mom. She gets thin, marries, puts on weight, then divorces.”

Jennifer bit down on her lip. “Your mom’s been married four times?”

“Five. This last one might stick.” He flippantly tossed it out there.

“Sorry,” she said as if she’d personally gone through it herself. Or if some old childhood hurt had leaked out.

“That was a long time ago. Let me see your hand.” He held out his.

“How old were you when your parents divorced?”

“Eleven.”

“And you went through that many step-fathers?”

“Not really. I mean, I stayed with my dad.” He wiggled his fingers.

She slipped her hand into his. It felt small, smooth, the contours of her palm fit against his like pieces of a puzzle meant to come together. He got tingles in places that a simple touch shouldn’t bring on.

He turned the ring. “It’s tight. Are you swollen?”

When he looked up she was staring right at him. “Maybe . . . because of my wrist. Dishwashing soap might work,” she said, her voice soft as the night. As soft as her dark hair looked brushing against her cheek.

“Actually, that’s not the best thing.” He stood and looked in the cabinet to see if they had any Windex or glass cleaner. They didn’t. In his fifty-dollar cleaning supplies shopping spree, he hadn’t worried about the windows.

He went into the bathroom. There wasn’t any in that cabinet, either. Then he remembered the best ring removal elixir there was. It had been the last resort before taking his mom to the jewelry store and having the thing cut off. He opened the medicine cabinet.

And smiled. “Thank you, Pete.” Luckily it was a new tube, too.

Stepping out, he squirted a big dollop into his hand. After dropping the tube on the table, he picked up her hand and massaged it onto her ring finger.

Gently, he moved the ring up and down.

“It needs to stay on there for a second. It shrinks things and controls swelling.” With even strokes, he kept rubbing her finger.

She lifted her hand and sniffed. “What is it.”

He tried not to smile, unsuccessfully. “It works. That’s what’s important.”

Her brows wrinkled, she looked curious and adorable. “What is it?”

A laugh escaped his lips. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

He pushed the tube over to her, but he didn’t let go of her hand. She read it and jerked her hand away from his and started flapping it up and down.

“You put hemorrhoid cream on my hand? Ewww. Yuck.”

Laughing, he caught her hand, and with one quick twist removed the ring. “You may wash your hands now.”

She stared at him, and suddenly his humor must have been contagious. Laughter slipped off her lips. “I can’t believe you . . .” Rushing to the sink, she washed her hands. He went to stand right behind her and instinctively noted she didn’t even come to his shoulders. Normally, he went for taller women, but . . . now he wondered why.

She looked back and up. “That’s gross.”

“It was a new tube.” When she moved away from the sink, he dropped the ring into his jeans pocket, soaped up his hands, and rinsed.

When he turned around, she was still standing there, flapping her wet hands in the air to dry and grinning.

Chin held high, she grinned. “I guess I’ll have to buy you another tube.”

“Oh. No. That was Pete’s.”

“Right.”

“I swear.”

They stood there in that tiny kitchen laughing, and he felt certain the walls hadn’t been this entertained in years. He knew he hadn’t. But damn if he didn’t like her. The easy way she laughed. The unpretentious way she stood there wearing no makeup. The tease in her voice. The smile . . . Dadblast that smile.

He’d had this with Sheri, hadn’t he? That comfortable place, the playful comradery, a breath away from being foreplay. Had they lost it when he shot the kid, or had it died when she became obsessed with her career?

Jennifer looked up. “I think it’s my turn.”

“Your turn?” He knew what she meant, but wished he didn’t. “I don’t have any rings stuck on my fingers.” He held out his hands.

“No. My questions.” Her right eyebrow rose in suspicion. She was on to him.

He still wasn’t throwing in the towel. “Fine, but you do know it’s three forty-five in the morning?”

“No.” She looked at the clock. “Crap. How did that happen?”

“When you drink this late, it’ll get you in trouble.” He grinned.

A slight, feminine chuckle slipped off her lips, and damn if it wasn’t the prettiest sound he’d heard. In fact, he wanted to hear it close up. Wanted to feel it whisper across his mouth. He wanted. Oh, hell . . . he wanted.

Wanting was dangerous. “Why don’t we try to get some sleep and pick this up tomorrow?” It was a ploy, a low one, because hell yeah, he hoped she’d forget. Maybe he needed to forget, too. Forget this wanting. Forget how much he liked her. He hadn’t felt this for any of the women he’d been with this last year.

Jennifer Peterson crossed over some threshold he kept locked. How had she done that? Or was it not all her, but him? Was he ready? Was he finally moving past things?

He didn’t feel ready. Or maybe he did. Shit, he didn’t even know anymore.

“Tomorrow.” She met his gaze. “But I have the mind of an elephant.”

“I’ll consider myself forewarned.” Gathering his glass and her mug, he set them in the sink.

She turned around, and their eyes held another two or three seconds. He read her nightshirt again. This is my sexy lingerie.

“Good night.” The words came out with a sweet smile.

“Good night,” he said, then remembered. Pulling the ring out of his pocket, he said, “Here.” He reached for her hand and put it in her palm.

And instantly he realized touching her had been a bad move.

She looked down at the diamond, then up. “Thank you.”

Her smile had him thinking things he shouldn’t. Like kissing her. Like following her into that bedroom. He inhaled to find resolve, but found her scent instead. Vanilla. Would she taste like that, too?

“You’re welcome.” His voice rang deeper.

Standing there, feeling emotional damaged, he watched her start toward the hall. His gaze caught on her every move. The nightshirt could fit three of her. It hung loose, offering not a clue to the feminine body beneath. The most alluring thing about the white cotton tent was the word sexy on the front. And he couldn’t even see that word right now.

So why did his jeans suddenly feel too tight?

* * *

It was after four when Bundy finally found a house with a black Chevy truck. The lights were off. He parked in the gravel drive, rolled his windows down and listened. The night was too quiet. Small-town quiet. Having grown up in one, he hated them. Give him the big city, where he could get lost in the crowd.

In fact, this might be the last job he took in a small town. He almost felt claustrophobic. People actually made eye contact. He hated that. It was as if they’d remember him. In his line of work, that was dangerous.

He got his gun from the passenger seat—his second gun—and eased out of the car slowly, hoping the guy didn’t own a dog. Not that a dog could stop him. There wasn’t another house for a mile. That was the good thing about small towns. The man could scream, and no one would hear him. And considering Bundy’s balls still hurt like a mother and one of his loose teeth had fallen out, Bundy planned on making him scream.

* * *

Clay swore he’d only been asleep fifteen minutes when he woke up to Devil’s yowling. The dog was a lazy barker and only put out the effort when he deemed it necessary—meaning a squirrel or a possum must be pissing on his front porch.

Groaning, Clay rolled over. Bad idea. A newly released sofa spring found its way from the inside of the cushion to poke him in the ribs. The jab had just enough oomph to chase away another level of slumber. That’s when he realized something was wrong.

He opened one eye. First, it wasn’t dark. Sun, morning sun, poured through the window. Second, Devil’s bark came from outside. Pete must have already let the dog out. Third, and this one was bad—something was burning.

Pushing up on one elbow, he inhaled. Ugg. Burnt eggs.

He rolled off the sofa, and with a stiffy painfully pressing against the zipper of his jeans, he took off for the kitchen. Reaching into his pants, he readjusted himself. He didn’t normally have this problem because he slept in the nude. Having company nixed the norm.

Sure as hell, a skillet of eggs was burning on the stove while two pieces of cheese toast burned in the oven. The cook, however, was nowhere to be seen.

He shut the respective appliances off. Running a hand over his face, he ran water on the scorched eggs. Then he eyed the clock. 7:45. Considering he’d tossed and turned for two hours when he’d finally gone to bed, he was running on two hours of sleep.

With a headache half brewing, he heard Devil barking again. Deciding his need to piss out-merited Devil’s possible possum problem, he took off for the bathroom.

Bladder empty, hands washed, he eyed the closed bedroom door where Jennifer slept and pulled on his boots and hurried outside. He didn’t realize how right he’d been about something being wrong until he saw the Sheriff’s car.

Hearing voices, he walked outside. The sheriff and Pete stood talking on the end of the porch.

“Something wrong?” He ran a hand through his hair.

The sheriff looked over at him. “Jacob Brown’s place was broken into last night.”

“Jacob Brown?” Clay asked.

“The yellow house off Cranberry Street, with that cottage beside it,” Pete answered. “Our properties meet up. He’s the one I told you was interested in buying some of your land. It’s about a half a mile this side of the junkyard.”

“Thankfully, he was on the road for work,” the sheriff spoke up. “The man’s gone more than he’s home. But he put in one of those fancy alarms, and I got called out before sunrise. As far as I can see, the place looks more ransacked than robbed. I’m checking with the neighbors just making sure no one else had any problem.”

“Nothing here,” Clay said. “You think it was just kids?”

“I don’t know.” The sheriff rubbed his chin. “Frankly, before your call the other night, the biggest issue I’ve had in two years was Erma Landry having one too many mint juleps for lunch and driving into the Post Office. Or Bessie Johnson’s coonhound breaking into her neighbors’ chicken house. We’re kind of a peaceful town.”

Clay’s antenna shot up. “Are you suggesting they’re connected?”

“Not suggesting, but you gotta admit it’s a frog’s hair away from being a coincidence.”

Normally, Clay didn’t believe in coincidences. But it seemed a stretch to tie these two things together. A hit man didn’t go around ransacking random houses. Then again, he’d ransacked Jennifer’s house. That made sense. This didn’t.

Sense or not, completely ignoring it didn’t feel right either.

“Smells suspicious,” Pete said, and then . . . “Shit! My eggs!” Pete tore past Clay.

“Too late,” Clay said. “They’re toast.”

“My toast,” Pete yelled.

“Goners,” Clay said.

After a bit of conversation, the sheriff left. Clay called Jake and told him about the break-in. Like him, Jake didn’t see the two things being related, but also like Clay, he didn’t plan to ignore it. “I’ll look into it.”

Clay wanted to insist on doing that himself, but then who’d look after Jennifer? He wasn’t quite ready to leave Pete in charge.

A few minutes later, Pete decided to go into town and eat pancakes at the local diner. Clay agreed to feed the horses and cattle even though it was Pete’s day. And he’d do that, right after he snagged a little more sleep. Unfortunately, the sun pouring into the windows and thoughts of last night with his new housemate made more sleep impossible. He crawled off the sofa, into his boots, and made coffee.

While the go-juice brewed, he whispered for Devil to come with him while he fed the horses. The dog, lying at the bedroom door where Jennifer slept, never lifted his jowls off his front paws.

“I get it. She’s prettier than I am.” He walked outside. After he spent some time collecting feed, and getting the stalls ready, he debated letting the horses stay out in the pasture for the day. For some reason, Mother Nature had decided to bless this corner of Texas with low humidity and lower temperatures.

As he walked out of the barn with a bucket of feed for the horses, Bingo, the chestnut mare, came galloping up to the fence. And it wasn’t just for the oats.

He met her at the fence and dropped the bucket of feed at his boots.

Bingo leaned her head over the fence, nuzzled her neck between his head and shoulder and made a soft neighing noise. He recalled his mom telling him that was how a horse said “I love you.” His thoughts shot to his mom and to his talk the previous night about her divorce record.

Five years ago, thinking about it would have pissed him off. After his own divorce, he wondered how many of those breakups had been her fault. If he believed her, even the divorce from his father hadn’t been on her.

Bingo neighed again. “I love you, too.” He ran his hand down the animal’s neck. “You’re the safe kind of woman, aren’t you?”

Or the safer kind. He could still remember when he’d been seventeen and Pilgrim, the horse he’d had as a child, had to be put down. Maybe it wasn’t horses or women that were unsafe. It was letting them get under your skin, close to your heart, and falling prey to their smiles.

A flashback of how it felt to be in the kitchen laughing with his guest filled his mind. Not that his heart was in danger—he barely knew the woman—but it was attraction and respect. Two things found on the roadmap to heartache.

He raked a hand over his face. But damn, he needed a new map.